


Hunter (the thing that monsters have nightmares about)

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Gen, Hunted Vampires, Hunting, POV Outsider, Poetry, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>why does he hunt us if not for food? / so many neophytes have asked that question / and I have no answer—all I know is I must keep quiet.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He might find me, he might find me / He might plug me full of dead man's blood / hack off my head and send me God knows where</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunter (the thing that monsters have nightmares about)

I. little bones litter the forest floor  
corpses from the rats and voles  
that owls tore apart for food

I tear through the trees in darkness  
scale one and stumble up the branches  
conceal myself as high up as I can get.

I draw in my fangs and keep them  
as far back as possible, tucked away  
where no one but me knows they are.

I don't even want to breathe  
it might be too loud, might make his ears  
prick up, his head snap to attention

why does he hunt us if not for food?  
so many neophytes have asked that question  
and I have no answer—all I know is I must keep quiet.

He might find me, he might find me  
He might plug me full of dead man's blood  
hack off my head and send me God knows where

not Heaven, not Hell, or that's what  
all our myths and legends say. The ones that  
aren't about him and his kind, anyway.

Bark scrapes against my back  
through leather jacket and cotton shirt—  
the hunter's smell changes direction

his heartbeat softens to a pitter-pattering  
until I can't make it out anymore, pick it out among  
the skittering rodents and owls' screeches

and I exhale—safe for now.

***

II. hate burns inside my chest  
every time I check the papers  
every time I see some new case  
spelled out in the newsprint or the blogs

I itch to curl my fingers around the hilt  
of Ruby's knife—even when it isn't demons  
Demons, no demons, I don't care very much  
I just want to run it through something living  
over and over and over again and again and again  
until the blade's all painted bright fucking red.

it used to be I thought about fires, about light and death  
it used to be I felt smoke curling down my throat at the  
sound of a new hunt—but it turns out Mom wouldn't've  
wanted this for me, she never wanted me to hunt at all  
so now I think about that instead, about the look on her face  
when I had to tell her that she died and Dad raised us like this.  
at least she got to forget it, but she might know it somewhere anyway.

I might disappoint her  
I might let her down  
(some sorry excuse for a son)  
I might hate myself forever  
but I still hate those filthy things more  
and if I save some people along the way  
well, then, that's worth it, isn't it? must be.

***

III. don't hesitate, my child  
ask all the questions that you have  
ask me about the Winchesters  
ask anyone and we'll try to answer for you

you need to ask us any questions that you have  
you need to know what those human men can do  
you need to protect yourself, in case no one else can  
your Sire won't be around forever, while covens sometimes  
break apart and die.

they've been through Hell, those human men  
every time they fall, they come back stronger  
you think they're gone, but then again  
it's knives and guns and this time, longer

they don't care who you are or what you've done  
they don't spare our kind because we feed on cattle  
so to sustain, to see our survival won  
we must choose when and where to fight our battles.

we used to own the darkness, child, but now it isn't so  
the light, it seems, was not enough for human beings  
keep your head down and your fangs clean of their blood  
leave the human sheep alone, no matter how the hunger gnaws

do this, child, or else  
the Winchesters just might  
lob off that pretty little head.

***

IV. it used to be we owned the night  
but that hasn't been so as long as I've known anything  
all I know is simple and concise  
beware the Winchesters  
beware everyone that's like them  
but most of all beware those two nightmares  
those knife-wielding terrors, gun-slinging murderers,  
there's nothing that they wouldn't do  
no one that they wouldn't hurt or kill  
no family that they wouldn't rend asunder just because they can.

cattle blood goes down cold and heavy  
it seeps down my throat at frozen molasses-speed  
and the ashy, earthen taste hangs around for hours  
and even this isn't a guarantee that they won't  
find something about dead cows in the papers and  
choose to come investigate. even this won't keep  
me safe by default—even this won't necessarily save  
my life. but it's better than nothing. it's better than  
tasting the hot, intoxicating rush of human blood and  
ending up headless for the trouble of getting what I want.

It's inevitable that that would happen  
Missing humans always draw the Winchesters in  
and I'd die for real, stay dead this time  
I can't let that happen. I won't. I'll tread carefully.

***

V. but that desire always follows me  
why won't it leave me alone—why does it always follow me  
why can't I escape it, regardless of how long  
I've kept to my rigid regimen of feeding on animals?

It pulsates with every heartbeat around me  
with every time I hear a human's heart racing—or just fluttering  
with every pounding that sends the scent of blood toward me  
battering into me and curling as a noose around my neck

I can't, I can't—I want to, of course I do, but I can't get that taste  
I can't let that warm, coppery concoction slither into my mouth  
much less down my throat—I'll never manage to survive that way  
one taste will lead to two, will lead to three and then to more

and by that point, I'll probably deserve it when the Winchesters  
come knocking on my door, come calling to collect my head.  
it's too hard to stop drinking, too risky to leave victims—and so I wait  
for night to fall, and then I run into the forest, hunting deer.


End file.
